


loves makes the shy brave and the brave shy

by superloonyluna



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Oblivious Harry, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and then proceed to believe he's straight is peak comedy, draco is totally in love with him but Harry is too busy being completely oblivious to realise, harry couldn't get more awkward even if he tried, harry using words like elegant to describe draco, im pretty certain this au has been done before but c'est la vie, literally draco outright propositions him and harry is still like 'what'??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 19:35:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30009885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superloonyluna/pseuds/superloonyluna
Summary: Harry is worried about the Yule Ball, Draco takes pity on him and offers to teach him to dance.Or the one where Draco drops hint after hint and Harry blindly steamrollers past them all.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 124





	loves makes the shy brave and the brave shy

**Author's Note:**

> me; *in the middle of writing two different multi-chapter fics and struggling to keep up* 
> 
> Also me, at 1am; wow, I should totally abandon them both to write a one-shot. Bad ideas? We don't know her. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, they belong to J.K.Rowling and Warner Bros.

Harry had been sitting alone in the quiet classroom for almost an hour before the door was pushed softly open. The stone wall was pressing, almost painfully cold, into his back, and his limbs were starting to go a little numb, his fingers stiff and uncoordinated, but still he didn’t move; his mind in too deep a state of panic to summon the energy to face the chaos and exuberance he knew would great him in the common room. Besides, then someone might ask him where he’d been, and then he would have to explain. He shuddered with a fresh wave of horror. 

It wasn’t like it was even that bad, and, in some small section of his brain that seemed to regard him with constant disappointment, he knew he was being a little pathetic. He’d faced worse than this - _far_ worse. But when Professor Mcgonagall had pulled him aside as they were leaving the Great Hall with a stern, “Potter, I need a word with you,” and he’d trailed miserably after her expecting the worst, that _worst_ had entailed things he now saw were completely insignificant, hardly worth worrying about in fact: retribution for the abysmal ‘D’ on his last essay, but;

“Potter,” she said, shutting the door with a snap and turning to him, “I trust you are aware of the traditions associated with the Yule Ball?”

“Er,” he supplied ineloquently, “we have to dance?”

Mcgonagall closed her eyes briefly, pursing her lips together as though attempting to fortify herself. “I’m glad you could pick up on that.”

That morning, when she had appeared in the common room to announce that the Yule Ball would be held at Christmas; Ron had turned to Harry and rolled his eyes with a grin; “it’s like they _want_ you to suffer.”

“Sod off,” Harry muttered back, determinedly refusing to catch Mcgonagall’s steely gaze, “you have to go as well.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ron said, his face falling, “I’d forgotten about that.”

Now, when he hadn’t been able to avoid her a second time, he gazed at her, a little resigned, as Mcgonagall shook her head. “No, Potter, I mean the traditions involving the champions. You are aware of what they involve?”

“No?”

“Potter, really,” she sighed, “the champions are required to lead the dancing.”

“They’re required to what?”

“Lead the dancing, Potter, pay attention. So I suggest you find yourself a partner. And perhaps learn how to dance.”

“But,” he spluttered, “can’t you make an exception? There’s three other champions, isn’t that enough?”

“No, Potter, we can not just simply bypass tradition.” Then, perhaps upon seeing his expression; “I’m sorry, Potter. I hardly expect it’s going to be as terrible as you’re thinking. People will be far too busy trying to…” she pursed her lips, “ _impress each other_ , to worry about what you look like dancing.”

Harry nodded numbly, but, when she left a moment later, sunk down against the wall, his mind stuck, like a skipping record, on a little film strip of images each more embarrassing than the last; he was going to trip - that was inevitable: he was far too clumsy. No one would want to go with him – what if he had to go alone, and dance by himself, arms reaching out to hold an invisible waist, feet tripping over non-existent toes.

He knew he was making a bit too much of a fuss; but it was just _one more thing,_ on top of everything else he was already worried about: the fact that he was currently failing half of his classes, and behind on the work for all of them, how the second task was drawing steadily nearer and he still hadn’t figured out the clue in the egg, and then, if he didn’t die during the next task - unlikely, but still a possibility - there was the task after that. And now here was another time where he had to make a fool of himself in front of everyone.

And the fact that he couldn’t dance – how the hell was he going to figure that one out? There was no way in hell he was going to _ask_ someone to teach him.

So when the door was pushed open, only to reveal Draco Malfoy, whose eyebrows rose incredulously when he spotted Harry slumped down against the far wall, he almost groaned because apparently, the world really did despise him, and he didn’t even have the energy to snap.

“Well, well, look who it is,” Malfoy’s lips twitched up in a familiar smirk as he leant against the doorframe. He had his shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbow, and in the warm, half light of the room, Harry found his eyes drawn to the pale, smooth skin of his forearms, the thin, elegant curve of his wrist.

“Sod off, Malfoy,” Harry said wearily, tipping his head back against the wall, “did you want this classroom or something?”

Malfoy frowned, ignoring his question; “dear _me_ , what’s got Hogwart’s prized champion all depressed? Sulking really isn’t a good look for you, Potter.”

“Shut up.” He really didn’t have the energy to do this now, and then, because _everyone_ had been saying that lately and it was starting to piss him off; “I’m not a _prized_ champion. I’m not even supposed to _be_ a champion. I didn’t ask for any of it.”

“No, of _course_ not,” Malfoy yawned, gazing down at him scornfully. “Being selected for a historically famed tournament must be quite a burden.” 

When Harry said nothing, he sighed, shaking his head a little; “for Merlin’s sake spit it out.”

Harry wasn’t actually sure why he said it, perhaps because he thought Malfoy could laugh now rather than later, and there would be one less person at the ball to mock him. Although, Malfoy would probably find _something_ to pull him up on then, as well, but regardless, Harry’s mouth was opening before his brain had registered any intention to explain; “I have to lead the dancing at the ball.”

Malfoy didn’t laugh, however, but his mouth did twist into a small smile; “and, let me guess, you don’t know how to dance?”

Harry grit his teeth, his cheeks colouring. “Er, no.”

“Ah, well, the world isn’t fucking ending, Potter,” he shrugged dismissively, raising an appraising eyebrow. “Plenty of people don’t know how to dance, you’ll blend right in.”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, “but they don’t have to do it with everyone _watching._ ”

Malfoy scoffed, “so learn. Ask someone to teach you – people are always tripping over themselves for a chance to breathe the same air as you; I’m sure you could find plenty of volunteers.”

“I’m not asking for _help_ ,” Harry glared at him, “it’s bad enough that I can’t do it in the first place.” He could imagine Skeeter’s articles already; _the chosen one may be able to defeat the darkest wizard of all time, but doesn’t know how to waltz! Harry Potter can escape death...but clearly that’s where his talent stops..._

“Salazar, you’re stubborn.” Malfoy sighed, a little annoyed, shaking the hair out of his eyes and hesitating a faction before saying, voice distant and condescending, “I guess I could teach you.”

“You could _what?_ ” Harry repeated, incredulous.

“I could teach you, you utter prat. Are you deaf as well as incompetent?”

“You can dance?” Harry asked, though if he was being honest, he wasn’t exactly surprised. It seemed like just the sort of pretentious thing that would be taught in pure-blood families; right alongside the etiquette lessons, probably.

“I can,” Malfoy replied haughtily, and then, confirming Harry’s suspicions; “we’re all taught when we’re young.” He was quiet for a second, then rolled his eyes; “I hated it.”

“Really?” Harry was less surprised about that, and more because Malfoy was actually telling him.

“Of course,” Malfoy gave him a disparaging look, “who the hell would enjoy that.”

“Right,” Harry said slowly, trying to figure out if Malfoy was just taking the absolute piss and if he was simply going to fall right into his trap. “But... _why_ would you help me?”

“Because despite what you think I’m not an absolute asshole,” Malfoy snapped, then, “besides, there’s no fun in mocking someone who’s being this fucking mopey.”

Harry glared at him. “I’m _not_ moping.”

“Sure,” Malfoy looked back dubiously. “Besides,” he added, kicking at the edge of the nearest desk, “I might have an ulterior motive.”

Harry laughed, surprising himself. “Don’t you _always_ have an ulterior motive?”

Malfoy bit the edge of his lip as the corners of his mouth twitched up, as though against his will, but his eyes glinted suddenly with a hint of warmth, as though Harry had said something pleasing. “Not _always._ ”

“Most of the time,” Harry grumbled, “why bother, anyway? When you can just let me humiliate myself in front of the entire school for the hundredth time. Don’t you live to watch me embarrass myself?”

“Hell, you’re such an idiot sometimes, Potter,” he muttered, before pushing himself off the wall, glaring down a little coldly, “yes, my life’s ambition revolves around waiting for you to make a fool of yourself. Now are you going to dance with me or not?”

Harry waited a few seconds before; “fine,” he agreed, a little reluctantly, because what did he have to lose at this point?

Malfoy’s eyes widened a little, as though he actually hadn’t expected Harry to agree, but; “Merlin, you _must_ be feeling desperate.” 

Harry frowned, was about to reply but Malfoy was already pulling his wand out of his pocket, and Harry tensed automatically, hand reaching for his own, but Malfoy rolled his eyes scathingly, flicked the wand in a complicated little pattern and muttered, _“carmen a choro,”_ and a soft jazz music filled the room. Malfoy set the wand down on a desk and turned to face him and it took Harry a second to realise the music was coming _from_ Malfoy’s wand.

“How did you learn to do that?” he asked, impressed in spite of himself. “I didn’t know you were good at charms.”

Malfoy’s gaze dipped just the slightest bit. “There are plenty of things I’m good at that you don’t know about, Potter,” he said, then, “come on, or are you just going to stand there gawking?”

“I wasn’t _gawking,_ ” Harry muttered, but stepped forward into the empty space at the front of the classroom and stood there a little helplessly before Malfoy walked up and placed his hands confidently on Harry’s shoulders. Harry swallowed, his heart skidding nervously, thinking this was the closest he’d ever been to Malfoy in a situation that didn’t involve them trying to hex each other.

“You have to take my waist,” Malfoy said dryly, smirking a little.

“Your what?”

“My _waist,_ Potter, honestly, I know you’re thick, but you can’t be tha-”

Harry glared, settling his hands in the slim dip just above Malfoy’s hipbones, pulling him in a little and digging his fingers very slightly into the soft flesh, just to prove a point, obviously, but the words died on Malfoy’s lips, and he swallowed, finished instead, voice a little shaky, “right. Well. Glad you know where that is.”

Malfoy’s shirt was thin, the material doing nothing to disguise the heat bleeding of his body, burning Harry’s fingers with a slight tingling, his stomach squirming a little, mind a little blurred, as it always was when he passed Malfoy in the corridor, expecting an insult or a fight, when he caught his eye across the tables in the Great Hall, when they were at each other’s throats, yelling for all they were worth, Malfoy’s face contorted with loathing, except now there was no arguing, and so Harry wasn’t sure why he was still feeling that recognisable rush of anticipation; because Malfoy wasn’t yelling, he was standing quietly, lips parted a little, eyes a little smoky rather than their usual light silver, and Harry suddenly realised for the first time just how close they were.

“Right,” Malfoy said again, a little thickly, looking down, dim light casting shadows along his cheek bones, filling out the curve of his lips and Harry suddenly found he couldn’t pull his gaze away from Malfoy’s face, thinking something was definitely wrong with him, maybe Malfoy had charmed him, or something, maybe –

“So, follow my feet,” Malfoy said softly, “we can just do something simple, no one will care if the steps aren’t fancy... when I step back with my left foot, you follow it with your right.”

Harry followed his instructions obediently, moving when Malfoy told him to, slowly at first, ungraceful and slightly clumsy, causing Malfoy to shake his head impatiently; “I said _follow_ my foot, Potter, not _step_ on them,” but soon he was faltering less, and they were falling in time to the music.

“There you are,” Malfoy said, after some minutes, and he looked up with such a soft expression that Harry stumbled, tripping for the first time in a while and Malfoy rolled his eyes, features settling back into scorn, “ah, and there I was thinking you had learnt something.”

“Piss off,” Harry said half-heartedly when Malfoy dropped his hands and stepped away, reaching back for his wand and muttering _“finite.”_

“I’m still going to look ridiculous.”

“I don’t think you’re as bad as you think you are,” Malfoy said tartly, then, “that was the simplest partnered dance that exists, Potter, if you can’t even manage that it’s a little concerning.”

“I’m not _completely_ incapable,” he said defensively, even though he probably was, and then, as he followed Malfoy out of the classroom, simply because he was curious, “I guess you’re going with Parkinson, then?”

“Pansy?” Malfoy sounded a little disbelieving, “Merlin, you really _are_ an idiot, how you got his far is beyond me-”

“Yeah, beyond me, as well,” Harry added with a slight laugh, before he could stop himself. 

“Don’t be so self-depreciating, Potter,” Malfoy said, waving a hand dismissively, “people will start to use it to their advantage.”

Harry opened his mouth to say, _what’s it to you,_ but Malfoy was already shrugging. “Besides, you’ve just defeated a dragon, so you can’t be that bad, and no, Pansy’s going with a Beauxbatons’s girl.”

“Oh,” Harry said, his mind stuttering a little at the way Malfoy had so effortlessly wrapped his tongue around the word _Beauxbaton,_ voice delicately rounding the French assonance. “So who will you go with?”

“If you must know, one of the boys from Durmstrang asked me.”

“Oh,” he said again, wondering why his chest was feeling a little tight, “what did you say?”

They stopped by the foot of the stairs outside the hall, and Malfoy was silent a second before turning to face him, expression closed. “Have _you_ asked anyone?”

“Er, I don’t know,” Harry said awkwardly, another fresh wave of embarrassment washing over him, “I was thinking of asking Cho. Not that she’ll say yes,” he added, “so maybe I won’t.”

“Oh.” Malfoy looked down, for a second, eyes a little blank. “The Ravenclaw seeker?”

Harry nodded, and Malfoy pursed his lips. “Well, I don’t see any reason for her not to say yes,” he said, his voice slightly cold, “so if you like her you should just do it.”

“Yeah... yeah, maybe.” Harry shrugged doubtfully. “So, what did you say?”

“What?

“To the Durmstrang boy.”

“Oh,” Malfoy glanced away, up the stairs where a couple of people were mingling, “I said yes. Of course.” His jaw clenched for a moment and Harry frowned, about to say something but Malfoy turned back, and, quick and perfunctory: “well, anyway. Night, Potter.”

“Wait,” Harry said quickly, as he turned to go, “I just..well. Thanks. For helping me.”

Malfoy looked at him silently for a moment before he nodded. “That’s alright.”

“And, well,” Harry shifted a little, “I know you could probably get good money from Skeeter for this, or whichever crappy reporter you were thinking of going to, but, could you not, you know, tell anyone? Please.”

“You think that’s why I offered?”

Harry couldn’t understand why, but there seemed to be a hint of anger in Malfoy’s voice, and he shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“Well, it wasn’t.” Malfoy bit out, short and derisive, “and don’t worry, no one will know. I can see how embarrassing that would be for you, the saviour of the wizarding world, lowering his standards enough to dance with a Malfoy.”

“That’s not -” Harry started, but Malfoy had already turned, was stalking off down to the dungeons. Harry rolled his eyes, and started to climb the stairs up to the common room, feeling slightly lighter than he had an hour ago.

To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy kept his word, and the next day everything was back to normal: Malfoy hexed him during charms class, and he threw a quill at the back of Malfoy’s head in retaliation; they both received a weeks detention and spent the rest of the class hissing angry insults whenever Flitwick’s back was turned.

In fact, that was the last Harry ever heard about it for a while, and he almost thought Malfoy had chosen to pretend that night had never happened, except about a month later, at the Yule Ball, after he had survived the dreaded dance without any ignominy, and had left Parvati at a table to get them both some pumpkin juice, weaving his way through the crowd, tugging at the tight, slightly suffocating collar of his dress robes and wondering how much more of this he would have to suffer through, thinking that, okay he hadn’t been the _best,_ but he hadn’t made a complete fool out of himself, so that was _something_ \- when he bumped into Malfoy, passing in the opposite direction.

“Charming as always,” Malfoy sneered, and Harry was about to bite out a reply, but Malfoy’s gaze had flicked quickly over him, and then, quietly in Harry’s ear as he brushed by, a little too close; “whoever taught you to dance like _that,_ Potter?” he murmured, “you really should thank them for me.”

Harry turned round, too full of post-dancing relief to think of anything particularly witty – although, come to think of it, that wasn’t exactly his strength at the best of times, so; “ I don’t know,” he shrugged, but for some reason he was grinning. “He’s a bit of a twat.”

“Oh?” Malfoy’s eyebrows rose a little, and he gazed at Harry appraisingly for a second before; “well, maybe,” he took a small step closer, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, “that’s because he’s never seen you in dress robes before, and maybe if he _had,_ he would have been a little less of a twat.”

“Maybe,” Harry looked at him, trying to keep the smirk off his face, “that would be a bit of a shame though, I kind of like him as a twat.”

Malfoy’s eyes darkened a little and he stepped marginally closer, glancing down quickly at Harry’s lips in a way that seemed a little out of his control, and, as though on a whim; “I’m sure he could still be a twat on his knees.”

Harry huffed out a soft laugh, “I hardly think he’s the type to get on his knees for anyone -”

“Not _anyone,_ ” Malfoy said quietly, looking across at him.

“No-one then,” Harry said, rolling his eyes, turning away to head back to Parvati, pumpkin juice forgotten, trying to ignore how fast his heart was beating, and telling himself there was no way Malfoy could actually mean that.

**Author's Note:**

> title is from a poem by C.C. Aurel. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are very much appreciated, and if you have time, please consider leaving a note - I so love reading your thoughts <3
> 
> also is it bad that I kind of want to turn this into a series where they just keep on insulting each other with pickup lines that get progressively more suggestive until eventually Draco is like 'why waste all that energy yelling at me when you could just fuck me into silence' and Harry is all; 'trust me, you wouldn't be silent,' and Draco just loses it, like 'oh, fuck' and slams Harry against the wall in front of everyone - and no one bats an eyelid and just resignedly start handing each other galleons because obviously they all had bets on how long it would take them, and in the staff room:  
> Mcgonagall; "Albus, pay up." "Two years? That's impossible, Minerva, I believe you lost when Malfoy mouthed at Harry's neck and made him moan in front of the entire hall." "Hardly... that's merely flirtation. Galleons, now, please."


End file.
